Cold
by phantomfluffandstuff
Summary: "Christine," he whispers her name like it is his dying breath. "Christine, I'm so cold." [E/C Leroux fluffiness]


_**A/N: Hello again, my lovely readers! Originally, I had this little guy posted up on Ao3 but I thought 'why not move it over here, too?' So, here you go! This is a little bit… different (I guess) than my usual writing style so tell me what you think about it! I always love to hear from you**_

 _ **I hope this one warms you…..**_

* * *

 _Cold._

That was all he ever felt. Cold. Cold bones. Cold skin. Everything was cold.

He hugs his arms to his frail body as another bout of shivers racks his weakened frame. His teeth chatter relentlessly, no matter how hard he tries to stop it. He scoots his chair closer to the fire but the flames have no effect.

 _So, so cold._

The shivering has almost become painful to him now. His bones shudder violently and his teeth are clenched so tightly his jaw aches. He shifts, pulling his blanket up closer to his chin. Nothing is working. He is still freezing.

He brings a shaking hand up to the top of his mask, bringing it down so he can touch his own forehead. Perhaps he is sick. Perhaps that is why he feels as if he is immersed in ice. His forehead, however, is just as cool as the rest of him. No fever. No explanation. Just cold. He covers himself once more with the mask.

He hears a whistle and he glances up, the small movement causing his teeth to become unclenched and to chatter once more. His tea must be done.

From the kitchen, he hears the piercing sound of glass being shifted and boiling water being poured from his kettle. He hopes she remembered to bring him mint tea. That is the only kind of tea he can stand. His memory fails him and he debates calling to her to remind her. He does not. He is too cold to bring himself to move.

She rounds the corner, tea cup in hand, looking more like an angel than a young girl. Her blonde hair streams out behind her, a few strands falling in her pretty face. He longs to brush them away for her.

She sits next to him, using his ottoman as her chair. Slowly, she hands him his tea cup, trying as hard as she can not to spill a drop of the warm liquid. Just one whiff of the liquid tells him that it is, in fact, mint, just like he asked. He smiles at her gratefully and she returns the look, brushing those few strands of stray hair out of her face.

Gingerly, he sticks a finger into the drink to test the temperature. Boiling. It is so hot it burns his cold flesh yet somehow his insides remain icy. He shivers and holds the cup up to his blue lips, ignoring the drops of spilt tea that fall on his blanket, scalding the skin that they reach underneath.

"Don't drink it too fast," the girl cautions. "You'll burn your tongue. It's still very hot, Erik."

The way she says his name sends a shiver down his spine that has nothing to do with cold. She speaks his name like he is normal, like he is just like any other man. It is music to his ears. She is music to his ears.

He smiles; her care for him is endearing. Then, he raises the cup to his shaking lips, ignoring the protests of the girl. The liquid burns his throat as it goes down but he does not care. He can feel the warmth. That is all that matters.

It snakes down his throat, leaving blisters in its wake, and he can feel it in his stomach. Slowly, the heat from the tea begins to spider through his body but he can already feel the blessed heat residing.

 _So cold._

He raises the teacup to his mouth again but this time the girl takes it from him, spilling some on her own delicate hand. She lets out a sharp yelp when the heat comes into contact with her fair skin, withdrawing her hand quickly to wipe it on her dress. While she does this, he swallows more of his tea, ignoring the pain for a few seconds of blissful warmth.

"Erik!" The girl chides, taking the cup from him before he can harm himself further. "What has gotten into you? That is far too hot for you to drink! You've burned yourself." Her voice softens as she takes his hand in her own, meaning to examine the angry, red welt. The moment his skin brushes hers, however, her eyes widen and she drops his hand. She did not expect to feel the touch of a corpse.

"Christine," he whispers her name like it is his dying breath. "Christine, I'm so cold."

"I know." She replies, carefully taking his hand in her own once again. This time, she holds it tightly, messaging his colorless fingers, trying to draw the warmth back into them.

Her touch is doing far more good than the burning tea did.

"Are you sick?" She moves to get up and check his forehead but he shakes his head. He has no desire for her to see him without the mask. She already thinks of him as a corpse, he needn't encourage this idea more.

She sighs, clearly frustrated with his lack of communication. They sit in silence for a few moments, his shaking hand still in hers. His fingertips no longer feel quite so numb.

Quietly, through clanking teeth, he asks, "May I have my tea back now?"

She purses her lips, trying not to smile at his simple question. "Of course, you may."

He swallows the rest of it in one gulp. The burning fades. The warmth dissipates.

"Is there anything I can do?" She looks sorry for him and for a moment, he almost believes she really is. She is such a nice girl—so kind and sweet. He wonders what she means by 'anything.' There are many things she could do for him, so many things he is dying to ask of her. But he just shakes his head. ' _No.'_

She stands, getting ready to leave him to his cold fate once more. He wishes she would stay. She brings him more warmth than anything else ever did. Not that she knows this. Not that he is planning to tell her.

To his surprise, she does not leave; she moves closer. She is so close to him that, if he were to reach out, he would be able to touch her. He longs to let his fingers graze that ethereal being, if only for a second. If he were to touch her, he knows he would feel something akin to fire on his cold skin.

"Here," she says simply. Without missing a beat, she pulls back his thick blanket, causing his poor, cold body to cry out in protest.

Then, she slides next to him instead.

The fire he feels from her body sets his heart racing. He shivers again but not from cold. He does not know exactly why he shivers but he knows it is because of her. He does not mind. He is grateful.

Gingerly, he allows his icy fingers to graze her porcelain forehead, brushing those few pesky strands of hair away.

He is not sure what she is doing or why but he does not want her to leave.

She smiles at his touch and his heart soars. She does not flinch away like everyone else! She is there and she is not leaving.

He shudders again and she draws him closer to herself, wrapping one arm around his boney shoulder the other around his shaking chest. She leans her head against his shoulder and she sighs. The angel is content! And in his arms?

He does not understand but he does not question.

Slowly, the warmth begins to creep through his body. She has caused this. She makes him feel fire where everything else gives him ice. She gives him the rays of the sun even in darkness. She gives him music in a world of silence.

His chattering ceases; his shivering stops.

The warmth feels like bliss to him who has only known cold for so long. He sighs, resting one hesitant arm around her waist, hardly daring to touch her, lest she move.

She does not.

She stays.

Fire runs through his veins and the girl closes her eyes. "Did that help?" She asks.

He says nothing. His voice has failed him, her fire has consumed him.

She falls asleep with him, warming him. He is content to simply have her with him forever; he never wants to let the moment go. The girl curled up against him, filling him with fire.

He brushes her crown lightly with his lips.

Perhaps it is not fire she gives him.

Perhaps it is love.


End file.
